“As I mentioned before, these trials will be both mentally and physically demanding. You are here to showcase your strength and the lengths you are willing to go to win. Hitting a target is easy, but how will you respond when faced with a greater challenge? Guards, bring out the actual final target.”
Four large men cloaked in black robes push a man toward the final mark, his frail body barely shuffling forward. The crowd gasps as they place him in front of the large target and begin to chain him there.
My father continues, “Your final target today will be a criminal—a filthy prisoner of Daramveer due to disobedience. Let this serve as a reminder of what can happen to you should you choose to back out of this competition. Each competitor will be doing my job for me, so I appreciate the day off. Now, please continue Thatcher and aim for his heart.”
A silence descends upon the crowd as they stand still, unfortunately, accustomed to the punishments the King bestows upon his prisoners. A heavy tension fills the air and for a moment, I believe the entire crowd holds their breath.
Arrogance leaks from Thatcher as he steps forward, readying his bow. The man before him trembles, knowing these are his final moments. In the distance, I can’t help but notice Thatcher’s mouth. A constant chatter leaves his lips—as if he’s whispering to the Gods to let him perform well. Seconds later, the arrow is released and looks perfect to the naked eye. The man slumps to the side, the rusty chains holding him in place. Blood begins to trickle down the man’s chest as the arrow remains protruding from his lifeless body. I feel as if I might be sick. I glance to the side, noticing a small group of healers standing nearby to assist with the bodies once shot. A familiar healer, Eden, keeps a firm eye on my father as the arrows fly.
The judge at the far end of the field, nearest to the motionless body, yells, “Miss.”
The crowd gasps. Even though the man’s heart was missed by less than an inch, the damage is already done to his already frail body.
Cromwell follows suit with the other competitors, firing arrow after arrow. The cloaked men bring in a new target each round for the competitors to aim for their hearts. The men show no hesitation, knowing that if they choose to step down, they will likely join those chained to the target.
Perfect bullseyes and near misses on the final targets set the tone for the first trial as the prisoners continue to slump to the side, unconscious with each arrow that was fired. The winner of this competition will be determined by hairline differences. The judges move from target to fallen men, assessing the arrows embedded in their flesh before turning to my father, ready to make their final decision.
The crowd is eerily silent, waiting for the results as I approach the men and cross the barrier. The targets before me pulse, and anticipation settles deep in my core.
It’s now or never.
All the onlookers notice my movement and turn to see what the fuss is about.
I remove the black hood covering my face, my black hair flowing through the breeze like a promise of death. “I’m Briar Blackbyrne, Princess of Daramveer, and these men stand here today to compete for my hand in marriage.”
The crowd claps cautiously as I notice my father rising slowly from his throne.
“I have decided that I will marry whomever I choose, whenever I choose. I will marry for love, respect, and honor, not because my father demands it.”
I turn to find him seething with anger, but he doesn’t move. I know I have one chance to make my declaration, and the pit I feel in my stomach from having to do what’s next will haunt me.
“I have decided that I will fight for my own hand, my own freedom, and my own honor.”
Gasps ripple through the crowd as I spot Maines, a smile lighting up her entire face. I reach forward and grab an unused bow. Locking the arrow in place, I steady my breath and aim at the first target.
“Briar!” my father shouts. “Don’t you fucking dare. Do not release that arrow.”
I close my eyes and think about what my mother and brother would say. They would encourage me to fight, so I will. I calm myself, aim, and release the first arrow—nausea washing over me as I anticipate what awaits me at the final target. The silence from everyone is deafening as my arrow strikes the mark on the cloth. The arrow tears through the thick fabric and crashes into the wood, echoing throughout the trial. I swiftly move towardthe next target, my feet thundering with each step. I repeat the same motion: breathe, aim, and fire.
Perfect shot.
My father’s voice echoes toward me.
One target stands between me and victory as I draw my final arrow; the man’s lifeless body hangs, chained to the target that feels miles away, his body not yet removed from the judges—my only chance.
The man’s head slowly rises, and black blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. Desperation fills his eyes, and I know he wants me to fire the arrow. He wants his life to end and the pain to stop. He’s tired of suffering. A tear falls from the prisoner’s eye, and I hear someone in the crowd let out a quick sob. My heart breaks.
I inhale sharply and say a silent prayer that I’ll be forgiven one day for my actions.
“I’msosorry,” I whisper.
My eyes settle on Thatcher as I see him getting ready to lunge in my direction. At that exact moment, I catch sight of a small shadow slinking toward his planted feet. Maines weaves through the crowd, directing her magic toward her brother. Within shooting distance of the final target, he lunges to stop me but is halted by an invisible hand that wraps around his ankle. He crashes to the ground with a thud as I release the last arrow toward a man who perhaps never deserved this. A man with a family. A man who I am about to kill.
The world comes to a stop, and the prisoner locks eyes with me. Tears stream down my face.
The arrow travels at a speed the naked eye can barely follow as I close my eyes, hoping my rebellion hasn’t cost me everything, my soul included. The arrow finds its home, a perfect shot directly into the man’s heart. I fight back the urge tocrumble as his head slumps forward once more and will never rise again.
I can’t be weak in front of these men, not for what’s coming and the plans I have.
